


Might Call Sordid

by ArgylePirateWD



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Autumn, Bad Jokes, Blow Jobs, Fluff, Fuckups In Love, M/M, Morning Sex, frenemies to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2020-11-28 00:00:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20957099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArgylePirateWD/pseuds/ArgylePirateWD
Summary: Lionel didn't think this was what he'd be getting into if he ever started screwing an assassin.





	Might Call Sordid

**Author's Note:**

  * For [livenudebigfoot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/livenudebigfoot/gifts).

John Reese is a snuggly bastard.

That's one thing Lionel didn't expect when they started this mess. Yeah, sure, he figured out that John was an emotional kind of guy early on, the kind who leaked feelings out of every pore like sweat, who rescued people and mistreated attack dogs, who'd been hurt real bad before, but jeez. He didn't think that this—all this sappy stuff like waking up in the guy's arms—was what he'd be getting into if he ever lost his damn mind and started screwing an assassin.

No, he figured it'd be all rough and dirty all the time, like it was at first, all filthy fucks against hard doors and rough brick walls, bruises and bites and sneaking around with the adrenaline still pumping. The kind of thing that Glasses might call "torrid" or "sordid" or something, if he wasn't too busy making embarrassing and earnest _"Please take care of my deadly buddy's mushy heart"_ kinds of speeches, complete with his usual eats-dictionaries-for-breakfast vocabulary and hand-wringing and big, pleading eyes.

That was an experience Lionel hopes to never repeat. It was painful and awkward for both of them. But at least Finch said he was watching out for Lionel, too, and not just in the usual bugged phones and hidden cameras way. People don't usually look out for Lionel like that. It's kind of nice.

But, yeah, sordid would be fair. The whole thing was pretty nasty for a while—for a _long_ while. For months, he was getting slammed against things and was shoving John around right back, was getting kissed with more teeth than lips or tongue and biting back just as hard, was bruised and clawed and pounded, was left sore and way more satisfied than he ever would've expected, and he didn't even try to stop it.

What did—does—it say about him that he liked it? He asked himself that every day as he checked out all the markings John left on his skin, all the purple and greenish-yellow blobs and the swipes and stripes of red that he hid under his clothes all day, all the ragged imprints of teeth and damn near possessive impressions of fingerprints. Why did it make him feel good, and what the hell did it mean, and why wasn't he putting a stop to it before he got himself killed?

And why did he care about John fucking Reese all of a sudden?

Then it turned into a routine. John would bring him coffee and a pastry or a real goddamn dinner before fucking him so hard it hurt, then stopped hurting him in all the bad ways when he fucked him. Those feelings of John's started leaking out. John became nice. Funny. Likable. Son of a bitch, Lionel genuinely _likes_ the guy now that they aren't just fucking so hard someone gets hurt and trying to fuck each other over.

Sometimes he even catches himself thinking about introducing John to his kid. Not yet—not anytime soon. But someday, maybe. He's got plans and everything. Might be a bad idea, but it's definitely not his worst. Someday.

Mostly, he keeps finding himself like this: wrapped up in a tangle of long limbs and a tight grip under his threadbare bedsheets, John's stubbly face buried in the curve of his shoulder, John's big hands slipped under Lionel's sweatshirt, splayed broad over his gut.

Usually those hands aren't so damn cold, though, Jesus. As soon as they make contact with his belly, Lionel's wide awake and cussing up a storm instead of happily half-asleep. Bastard. John's a bastard. Maybe he needs to reconsider that whole _Liking John Reese_ thing. Holy crap.

At least John's got socks on those giant feet he's pressing against Lionel's calves, thick, soft, woolly ones that are either keeping those toes warm or aren't letting the cold seep through. Thank Christ for small favors. Cold feet are the worst.

Cold hands on his belly are pretty damn bad too, though.

"Good morning, Lionel," John says, drawing out the words, his voice low and lazy, slow and thick and cheerful, like he's oblivious to Lionel's anger. Bastard. Lionel feels the curl of John's smile through the fabric of his shirt, and some of the annoyance at having frozen fingers stuck to his stomach dies away.

Only some of it, though. Man's gotta have _some_ principles, you know?

"The hell are you doing, asshole?" Lionel asks, without any real heat, and he doesn't swat those hands away like he probably should. "Practicing your octopus schtick for Halloween?"

John chuckles, a rare happy and—ah, jeez, Lionel's kind of disgusted with himself for thinking it as soon as he does—_precious_ sound. A sound that makes his heart do something funny in his chest and his stomach fill with something uncomfortably like those butterflies some sappy people talk about. Since when did he start liking it when the bastard laughs? What the hell?

"Yes." John tightens his grasp a little and presses a kiss to the sensitive skin below Lionel's ear, his lips warm despite the chill everywhere else, and Lionel's stomach does that flippy thing again. Turns out it's pretty hard to stay annoyed at Edward Popsiclehands when he's doing sweet shit like that...until he nuzzles Lionel's ear with that cold nose of his. Ugh.

"Hey, you cut that out before I turn you into calamari." Nevermind that that's—

"Calamari's squid," John points out, before nuzzling him again. Lionel huffs. "I'm an octopus, remember?" A big, lanky octopus who smells a little like leather, a little like sweat, a lot like gunpowder. A lot of gunpowder. Someone's been busy.

"Who you been shootin' at, hm?" Lionel asks. "All of 'em bad guys?"

"Every single one." John kisses him again. "Carter took care of 'em for me. And Shaw." He drops another kiss on Lionel's skin. "Shaw told me to remind you you're a loser, by the way." Another kiss. "Think that's her way of saying hi."

"Or that she's planning to murder me in my sleep. Never can tell with that one." She's growing on him, though—God help him. All these weirdos have grown on him. Creepy ol' Birdman, scary Shaw, and the big guy. One of them's probably gonna get him killed one of these days, and he's not sure he'll even mind when it happens. He'll probably walk in front of the bullet on purpose.

Laughing quietly, John kisses him again. "If she hated you, she wouldn't wait for you to sleep. Or bother with threats." Another kiss lands on Lionel's skin, and John grips him tighter, hands pressing deep into the soft flesh of Lionel's belly, like he's trying to reassure himself that Lionel's still there. Must've been a rough case, then. More of Lionel's ire dies away. John's always at his clingiest after the close calls.

Lionel would bet his whole pension that there's some kind of bandaged-up wound hiding under that leather jacket. John probably got himself shot again. Which means Lionel's gonna have to pretend it doesn't scare the shit out of him every time again. Crap. He should get an Oscar for all the times he's acted like he cares more about stains on his worn-out old sheets or his faded couch than the thought of John not coming back to him someday.

"Well, she ain't slit my throat yet," Lionel says, and, making a mental note to dig out his first aid kit later, he lays his hands over John's through his sweatshirt. "And neither has anyone else." _I'm still here_ is what he really means. _And I ain't going anywhere anytime soon._

"Good," John quietly says, and exhales softly. "That's good.

"I brought you breakfast, by the way," John adds, giving him yet another kiss. "Coffee."

"Coffee?" That sounds promising.

"Mm-hm." John kisses him yet again—that's another thing John really likes, Lionel's found. John's always looking for another excuse to kiss him. Guy's a romantic, even though he hasn't said any real romantic stuff out loud. Though, "Good coffee," sounds pretty close to those three big words right now.

"Now we're talking." Lionel tries to pry himself from John's grasp, but John makes an unhappy noise and tightens his hold. "Am I gonna get to drink this coffee sometime this year, or do I gotta stay in bed and act like your personal heater while it gets cold?"

John nips his ear playfully. "Haven't decided yet." His hands start wandering down, slow and intent and fucking cold—_no._ No, those things aren't getting anywhere near Lionel's dick while they're like that.

"Doesn't Glasses pay you enough to buy gloves or mittens or something?" Lionel demands, snatching hold of those frigid things before they can slip beneath his waistband. John makes a disappointed sound, but Lionel ignores it, in favor of rubbing John's rough, big hands between his, hard and fast. "Jeez, what the hell'd you do, give Frosty a handjob?"

"Yes," John says, and Lionel can hear the smirk in his voice. Asshole. "It's only October. No snowmen."

"October? The hell does that matter?" Lionel asks. "You never seen snow on Halloween before?" Slowly, John's fingers are starting to feel more like fingers than icicles. Slowly. "Anyway, don't you dare start giving it up to snowmen, all right? I don't share."

"So we're exclusive, then?" There's an odd, shaken note to John's playful tone, and soon a stiffness creeps into the legs tangled with Lionel's and the arms pinning Lionel's to his sides.

Hopefulness, Lionel thinks, and freezes up himself. That's what was in John's voice—hopefulness. Nerves, too, lots of them, because this? This is the closest either of them's come to treating this thing of theirs like something serious out loud, like it might be something that matters. Ol' Finch might be getting all atwitter about the vulnerable state of his buddy's heart or whatever, but so far, John hasn't, and neither has Lionel.

Are they exclusive, then? Are they—God help them both—a goddamn couple? Well, crap. They are, aren't they, or at least they are on his side. He hasn't been with anyone else since this "sordid" thing started, hasn't tried, hasn't wanted to try. He can't speak for John, but now that he thinks about it, he's sure as hell been treating this thing like a relationship himself. Not screwing around with anyone else or going on dates—though he didn't do much of that anyway. Cuddling. Thinking about introducing John to Lee.

Aw, hell.

John kisses him all the time. John snuggles up to him whenever he gets the chance. John brings him coffee and breakfast, fucks him gently, smiles at him like he's something good instead of the guy who does some of his dirty work and takes his dirty fucks.

But what's gonna happen if he says any of this out loud? Will John get spooked and run off? The idea twists in Lionel's gut, hollow and heavy and cold. It's weird to realize he doesn't want that, but he doesn't want that. He didn't even know before now that he wants John to stick around, or how much he wants it. God, he wants it so much it hurts. But if they're not on the same page...

"I don't share," he repeats, and laces their fingers together like the goddamn couple they might or might not be. "You want this, you gotta want only this. Understood?"

John lets out a loud, relieved sigh, the tension leaving his limbs, and he squeezes Lionel's hands. "I don't share, either," he says, and though it sounds pretty sinister coming from him, he presses yet another soft kiss below Lionel's ear, then snuggles in even closer.

Well. Guess that settles that, then, Lionel thinks. Except... "Hey, what about my coffee?"

John lets out another of those infuriating chuckles of his. "That's what microwaves are for." He untangles his hands from Lionel's grip, and sneaks them down Lionel's pants. "Besides, do you really want coffee, or..." A hand finds the bulge of Lionel's morning wood and gives it a gentle squeeze. Lionel groans. "Do you want me to take care of this?"

"Both," Lionel says. "I want..." But the way John palms at the hardness of Lionel's cock through the fabric of his boxers has him rethinking that, has him breathing hard and sharp and pushing up against John's palm. It's good, John's big hand tempting and clever and cool against his sensitive dick, better when John slips his fingers through the slit of Lionel's boxers and makes contact with the flesh.

"Oh, God," Lionel grits out, voice shaking, as John grips his length, drags his chilly fingers in a slow and maddening slide that goes straight to Lionel's guts like a live wire. John laughs, the fucker, and Lionel would sock him in his smirking mouth if it wouldn't mean he'd stop that hand moving on his cock, the rough pad of John's thumb spreading the gathering wetness over the head, making the pit of Lionel's gut go tight and his breath go hard and ragged. He's not gonna last long, is gonna come in his pants if John keeps it up, and it's gonna piss him off and make John all obnoxious and smug.

"Hey, you better take these things off if you're planning to keep this up," he says, taking hold of John's wrist. "I ain't the one making the big bucks here."

John lets out a low, disappointed huff. "What if I buy you a new pair?"

"I don't want a new pair. These are good and broke in." Then, Lionel gets an idea. "'Sides, if you take 'em off, you can get down there and suck me off."

John's thumb goes still. He stays quiet for a moment, considering, not moving a muscle except to breathe. Lionel smirks to himself, letting go of John's wrist. Yeah, that'll do the trick. He's never met a guy who likes sucking cock like John. "Excellent point," John says, then releases Lionel's cock, slides under the covers, and tugs down Lionel's sweatpants and underwear in what seems like a single motion.

Showoff.

It's not long until soft lips are wrapping around Lionel's dick, engulfing him in tight, wet heat. John's mouth is the only part of him that's warm right now, seems like, as he sucks Lionel down, making Lionel swear and burn and arch up against him, seeking more, more, now. John chuckles at his impatience, the laugh reverberating down the length of Lionel's dick—god, it's indescribable how good it is—and slows himself, the tight suction moving at an excruciating pace on Lionel's dick that somehow gets him closer than anything else.

"Asshole," Lionel breathes, like all the air got punched out of his lungs the second John's mouth touched his cock. "You're a fucking asshole."

John laughs again, and Lionel fists his hands in the sheets, clutching them so hard his knuckles hurt, grip going even tighter when John swallows him all the way down. Lionel groans helplessly, and lets out an emphatic, "Fuck." How the hell does John do that? How the hell does he keep swallowing around Lionel's cock without choking on it? How the hell does he just keep going?

Why the hell should Lionel care? John loves it, and it's good. Lionel fucks into his mouth, hips jerking, mouth spilling every filthy swear he knows, and John just takes it like it's the best thing in the world, like all he wants to do for the rest of his life is fill his hot mouth and tight throat with Lionel's cock.

Good god, John even sounds like he's into it, making all these tiny, pleased porno noises as he gets deep into it and sucks Lionel's cock like he was born for it, moving in all the best ways without a bit of input from Lionel's useless words.

Lionel's got no complaints. There's a reason John's so smug all the time. Jesus cocksucking Christ, John is good at this.

And Lionel's close. He gives John's hair a little tug, saying, "Hey, hey, I'm gonna—" and John makes another one of those filthy noises and sucks harder. Then his hand closes gently around Lionel's balls, and that's it. Lionel's a goner.

He comes so hard he sees stars, body overwhelmed with hot-wet-good as he lets out the kinds of sounds he thought were only made in porn until he met John. And, fucking hell, John doesn't stop, swallowing eagerly, still making all those happy noises as Lionel finishes.

When Lionel's done, he slumps down, sagging hard into the mattress and pillow, panting and useless and brainless. All he can find the brainpower for is cursing, a whispered, breathy string of, "Shit. Holy fucking shit," and other dirty words. John huffs a small laugh around Lionel's spent cock, sending a jolt of sensation that's almost painful through Lionel's body, then gives the limp length a broad, cleansing lick before pressing a tiny kiss to the tip and letting him go.

Lionel flops over on his back, breathing hard, muttering even more swears. He feels more than sees John crawling up the length of the bed, straddling Lionel's body with those long limbs of his, until John's smirking face is looming over Lionel's.

It's funny—he used to have nightmares about seeing that face this close. Now...

"Am I still an asshole?" John asks, with an expression that says he knows the answer to that, and he's proud as hell.

"Fuck you," Lionel grumbles, fondly, making that asshole grin widen.

"I don't think you're up for that yet." John kisses him on the nose, then climbs off the bed, not giving Lionel a chance to react. Lionel gets just enough of a glimpse of John's crotch to see the bulge in his dark pants before John's on his way out the door, promising, "Maybe after your coffee."

"You not gonna let me take care of that?"

John gives him a questioning look over his shoulder, and Lionel manages a vague, clumsy wave in the direction of John's cock. John's confused frown turns to a leer. "Oh, I have plans for that, Lionel," he says, eyes bright with mischief as he palms his cock, and he honest-to-god waggles his eyebrows before he disappears out the door.

Yeah, that snuggly bastard will definitely be the death of him. He's not sure he really cares.


End file.
